


TF2/Forgotten Realms Crossover Ficlets

by livvylive



Category: Forgotten Realms, Neverwinter Nights, Team Fortress 2, The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4179444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livvylive/pseuds/livvylive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of TF2/Forgotten Realms crossovers (with guest appearances by Legends of Drizzt characters here and there). Written by me, credit to mrs-cheese on Tumblr for some of the ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Damnit, Medic!

"And vhen zhe patient voke up, his skeleton vas missing and zhe wizard vas never heard from again!" Heavy shook his head at the uproarious laughter that followed the end of Medic's story. The half-orc was at the bar, trying to discuss rumors of a nearby goblin infestation with the barkeeper. Medic, meanwhile, was at a table getting drunk.

So very, very drunk.

"Anyvay, zhat's how I got kicked out of zhe Red Wizards." Suddenly silence filled the smoky tavern and Heavy's stomach fell. "Medic..." he muttered under his breath wearily. Every time the wizard promised he wouldn't tell anyone about his previous... _unsavory_ connections. And _every time_ the man got drunk off his ass and started telling _everyone_ that he used to study with the slavers, necromancers, and darker sorts that made up the notorious Red Wizards of Thay.

He gave up on trying to get the barkeep's attention, and turned around to see a roomful of burly, armed, and dangerous adventures and travelers slowly backing away from the unimposing human wizard surrounded by empty mugs. Most seemed intent on simply getting away from the former Red Wizard, but Heavy's mouth drew into a tight line as he noticed some of the bolder patrons reaching for their weapons. Medic, completely oblivious to the sudden tension in the room, was singing an off-key drinking song, humming what he guessed was the tune when he forgot the words. Heavy did a quick mental count. _Two at the bar, three in corner... Where did serving wench get that cudgel?... two more by the door..._ _Too many. And Medic is too drunk to be helping._

Coming to a quick decision, Heavy did the only thing he could. He laughed. "Ahahaha! Doktor is always making jokes!" He forced a wide grin onto his face, and waded through the crowd to reach Medic's side. "You are funny man when drunk, Doktor. Haha. Maybe is time to stop drinking and stop making jokes, yes?" Heavy elbowed Medic's shoulder, causing the drunk man to sway. A quick glance around the room told the half-orc that his ploy was somewhat successful so far. The bar patrons were still watching warily, but hands were mostly away from weapons, and the serving wench had put her cudgel away. Perhaps they would make it out of this in one piece after all!

But Medic was still drunk. So very, very drunk.

A scowl slowly crossed the drunk wizard's face, and he flopped his head around until he was glaring up at Heavy. "What do you mean, jokes?" he asked irritably. "I do not make _jokes_. A Red Wizard," he continued, rising unsteadily to his feet, "does not _joke_. _I_ do not _joke_." He grew louder with each word, as he filled with the type of self-righteous anger reserved only for drunks and fanatic worshippers of mad gods. Heavy's desperate attempts to shush the man only fed his anger, until he started shouting at Heavy in a bizarre language and gesticulating wildly. Completely unable to calm Medic, Heavy began desperately scanning the room, only to see a very worrying number of naked blades and angry people.

He was out of options.

Or.... maybe he was only _almost_ out of options.

Maybe when cunning and hope failed, idiotic bravery and trusting blindly to fate would work...

Heavy exhaled sharply, and turned back to the still-wild Medic. He closed his eyes for one brief moment, cursing whatever gods had led him to become entangled with the mad wizard. Then, the half-orc reached out and grabbed Medic with both hands. With a spin and a bellow, he _heaved_ the man over the heads of the bar patrons and out through a window. Then, bellow unceasing, he lowered a shoulder and charged through the crowd and towards the door. He burst through with a spectacular crash, narrowly missing (and severely startling) a passing gnome. Heavy turned sharply to the right and continued charging down the road, not missing a step as he bent down and scooped a screaming, red-faced Medic out of the dirt. He could hear the shouts of the mob in the tavern, and knew they would be hot on his heels any moment. Once again out of options that didn't involve charging blindly ahead, he simply kept running down the road and out of town, Medic squirming and swearing in his arms.

So much for ever returning to Lonelywood again.


	2. Dwarven Diplomacy

Tavish Degroot, dwarf-prince of the East Rift, picked unenthusiastically at his food. It was fine grub, to be sure, as fine as anything from the palaces of home. King Bruenor had made his gold dwarf guests at home with meals fit for kings. But still, Tavish was... disappointed. This was his first trading expedition, and he had hopes it would be more exciting, more _adventurous_. Even when the tendays of travel from the Rift to Mithral Hall proved uneventful, he had kept up hope that there would be excitement waiting for him when he reached the fabled home of Clan Battlehammer. But they'd been here almost a tenday already, and he hadn't even seen the legendary king, or any of his famed companions. Tavish had met countless interesting folk- a cleric who couldn't stand still and bustled around as they talked, a smith with little patience for any of Tavish's questions, and even a smelly dwarf in squeaking spiked armor who'd offered him a rancid-smelling flask of something called "Gutbuster". Tavish had politely declined, put off by the gurgling noise the drink was making and the fact that it seemed to be eroding the flask even as they spoke. He'd even managed to escape the dull senior trader his da, the king of the East Rift, had sent with him and spent a night getting drunk with some of the common dwarves of the Hall. That was an experience he certainly wouldn't mind repeating.

But Tavish only wanted the chance to meet with Bruenor. He had heard grand tales of the mighty warrior and the other Companions of the Hall, and desperately wanted to see if their reality measured up to their legends. Catti-brie, Wulfgar, Regis- they were names that had inspired him to try and find his own adventure. He was even hoping to meet Drizzt Do'Urden, the famed drow ranger. The dark elves and the gold dwarves were ancient enemies, that was true. But, then again, so were gold elves and half-orcs. Despite that, one of Tavish's closest non-dwarf friends was an immense half-orc everyone just called Heavy. Of course, their interactions mostly involved getting drunk and wrestling. Or getting drunk and fighting goblins. Or getting drunk and fighting Da's guards when they came to retrieve Tavish from the tavern. All in all, though, Heavy was a good friend. So even Drizzt Do'Urden, the dark elf, could be well worth meeting.

Giving up on pretending to be interested in his meal, Tavish pushed his plate away and leaned back. Looking around the room, he tried to find a way to distract himself from his boredom. Most of the gold dwarves in the trade delegation were fairly quiet,  but some in the corner were slowly falling deeper into their cups and starting to sing traditional drinking songs. Tavish just hoped they wouldn't sing any of the ones about killing drow- he had heard Bruenor was defensive of his dark elf friend.

Briefly, the prince considered joining the drinking dwarves. Though close friends with none of them, he knew them from the journey. And yet the idea simply didn't feel _right_. He could drink with them at home just as well as he could here. He hadn't come on this journey to do the things he could do in the East Rift.

As he continued pondering his options, Tavish gradually realized that no one was paying him any attention- a novel thing for the young dwarven prince. Much more quickly, he realized that the situation offered him an opportunity to explore the Hall on his own, without one of the well-meaning older dwarves stopping him.

And _that_ was an opportunity he would certainly take advantage of.

With a grin his wiry black beard couldn't hide, Tavish scampered out of the room as quickly and quietly as he could.

 

A few hours later he was wandering through the bowels of Mithral Hall, thoroughly lost and enjoying every moment of it. He was having a grand time! He'd watched artisans work and seen miners pull mithral, precious beyond measure, from the walls. He'd peered over the edge of Garumn's Gorge and seen the glow of the forges fill the enormous Undercity with a warm glow. But he still hadn't stumbled across the one thing he wanted to find- a tavern. So now he wandered through the Undercity itself, listening for the sounds of drinking. Soon enough he heard raucous laughter and a-rhythmic singing come from a well-lit room just ahead of him. Crossing the threshold, he was met with the sight of two dozen or more dwarves in varying stages of drunkenness. The loudest group seemed to be centered on a red-headed dwarf wearing a single-horned helmet and leading a drinking song about the virtues of killing goblins by the dozen. Giddy at having found such a perfect place to pass the time, Tavish made his way to the bar and got an ale from the surly brown-bearded tavernkeeper. Turning and leaning on the bar with one elbow, Tavish surveyed the room with a grin and swallowed a mouthful of ale. It was _very_ good- dark and rich and earthy, as good as any drink in the Rift. Slapping some coins on the bar, he left and made his way to an empty table by the group of dwarves with the red-beard at the center. They were now singing a song unfamiliar to Tavish, about making goblin-brain stew. He listened for a moment, and then amended that translation- it was about brain stew in general, and the wonders thereof. Grin widening, he leaned back and drank deeply from his mug. Yes, he had found a good place indeed.

After a short while, Tavish was well on his way to completely drunk, and singing along to an old dwarven song about the exploits of the gods. As the crowd grew he had been absorbed into the group around the dwarf with the horned helmet, and was jostled back and forth as the rowdy crowd acted out the chorus of the song. As it ended in a long, drawn-out, dwarven howl, the red-bearded dwarf leapt on top of a table, a mug of ale in both hands. The crowd cheered him on, and Tavish realized he was probably a frequent, popular patron like Dell the gnome at the Axe and Ale back home. He joined in the drunken cheering.

"Well lads!" he shouted out. The dwarves cheered again, and he paused. "Well lads," he continued, "It's time for me to be makin' the same offer I be makin' every night- if any o' ye are bold enough to take it!" More cheers. "Any dwarf among ye who can out-drink me tonight gets his drinks paid for for a tenday!" This brought the loudest cheering yet. "So, who among ye's has the guts to try?" Silence filled the room.

Then Tavish waved his mug in the air wildly. "I'll be takin' ye up on that!" he called. Every head in the room swiveled to face the young, dark-skinned-and-bearded gold dwarf, and an amused expression flickered across the red-bearded dwarf's face. He jumped off the table and walked toward Tavish, topping in front of him.

"Ye sure about that, lad?" he asked with a slight smile. Tavish lifted his chin and looked the older dwarf dead in the eye.

"Damn right I'm sure." Cheers exploded in the room once more at the young prince's firm declaration, as well as a chatter of betting and wagering.

"All right then, lad" the red-beard said with a twinkle in his eyes. Turning, he roared "CLEAR A TABLE!" Motivated by the excitement, a crowd of dwarves bustled for a few moments before parting to reveal an empty table with several trays full of mugs of ale on it. Side-by-side, Tavish and his competitor strode to the table, sat on opposite sides, and began to drink.

Later, the other patrons would describe it as a contest that would go down in history. Drink after drink the pair downed, their pace never slowing. They were evenly matched in the endurance and constitution, both barely showing any signs of drunkenness even after they cleared away almost a dozen ales combined. Loud and boisterous at first, the crowd slowly fell into an awed silence as the two drinkers continued on and on with their competition.

And then, all at once, both stopped reaching for a new mug and stared at the each other with grudging respect. Then, slowly, almost elegantly, they both passed out face-first on the table.

The crowd lingered for a while, hopeful that one of them would awaken and the entertainment could resume. As time passed, however, they slowly filtered out. Eventually the only one left was the tavernkeeper, who simply cleaned up around the unconscious pair and left.

 

A few hours later, Tavish woke up with the worst hangover he could remember having. His head pounded like a smith was beating it into shape, and he groaned as light from a single flickering candle pierced his vision like hot iron. Hearing snoring, he glanced over to see his opponent from last night still asleep on the table, red beard stained with ale. A part of him idly wondered if he had won or not, while the majority of his mind occupied itself with keeping him from emptying his stomach all over the table. Then, suddenly a soft chuckling distracted him, and he spun his head to the left to see who was watching him. In a dark corner of the room, he could barely make out a dark shape too tall to be a dwarf. "Who...?" he tried to from a coherent sentence, but his tongue flopped about his mouth awkwardly. The chuckling came again, and the figure moved into the candlelight.

It was a drow. A drow with purple eyes and a scimitar at each hip. A drow Tavish had heard epic tales of, a drow he had hoped to meet someday.

It was Drizzt Do'Urden.

"I'm impressed," said the dark elf with a smile. "Not only did you match Bruenor drink for drink, you woke up before him. That is truly something to be proud of, my friend."

Tavish looked wildly from the famous drow to the dwarf still snoring on the table. "Who...?"

The drow arched an eyebrow. "Bruenor Battlehammer. You, my friend, won a drinking contest against the King of Mithral Hall."

Tavish gaped at Drizzt. A moment passed, and then two.

Then the young dwarf prince slowly toppled backwards, unconscious once more.

Drizzt just shook his head and laughed once more, before leaving the two noble dwarves to their slumber.


	3. Qara finds a frie

Qara stormed down the streets of Neverwinter, robes billowing behind her. Anyone who knew her to one glance at her and got out of her way. Most who did't know her did a double-take, and then moved too. Quickly.  
"Damn them. Damn them all to all the damn hells," the sorceress muttered as she swept past market stalls and shops. All she'd done was light a little fire- why where they so worked up about it? Yes, she'd lit it on that brat Ashni's desk, but she'd been just trying to show the stuck-up noble girl what real power looked like. Ashni was always prancing around the place like a fool, talking up her ability, when Qara was the only one at the whole damn Academy with a whit of real talent! But nooo, how dare Qara singe the twit's eyebrows! Now she was suspended- again- and trying to stay one step ahead of the City Watch, and some idiot had been following her since she left the flaming classroom.  
Well, she could solve one of those problems rather easily.  
Suddenly, Qara darted into a side alley, trying to make it look like she was taking a shortcut to another street. With luck, the hooded man following her would try to cut through the alley too. And find her waiting for him with a fistful of flame. Qara grinned. This shouldn't take long at all.  
A minute passed. Then two. As the third ticked away, Qara felt her feral grin fade. The stranger hadn't seemed like he was that far back. Had he not been following her after all? Just when she was about to leave her patch of shadow, however, the same hooded, dark-clothed man she's seen out of the corner of her eye since leaving the Academy came around the corner.  
"There you are you bastard!" she cried, leaping forward. The man turned with a muffled shout and fell back against the wall as Qara approached, her hands glowing with power. "Why in all the hells have you been following me?" she snarled.  
Instead of responding, the man just stood there. He was a little shorter than Qara, and covered head-to-toe in ashy clothing of varying styles and qualities. And his posture was... wrong. He should have been frightened, cringing away from her power. Instead, he was hunched forward, head low, as if peering excitedly at her hands from the folds of his hood. Then, suddenly enough to startle the confused sorceress, he straightened up and held out a fist, palm down. Qara felt confusion begin to push away her rage. It almost looked as if he was offering her something... Nope. You know better than to take things from creepy stalker men, she admonished herself.  
"What do you want?" she asked, trying to regain some of her anger. But the man just shook his fist slightly, as if to call her attention to it. "What? Do you have something you wanna give me?"  
The stranger nodded excitedly, and start bouncing up and down slightly. The last of Qara's ferocity died, and she tentatively held out a hand. Impatient, the other grabbed her and dropped the contents of his fist into it- it took every bit of the little restraint Qara had to not kill him as soon as he touched her. When she pulled her hand back, however, she found it full of ashes and unburnt wood. "... what is this?" she asked, sending a glare the stranger's way. His only response was to eagerly point at her empty hand and then the wood, and back again. Qara followed his gestures, and began to get an idea. "Do you.. do you want me to burn this?" she asked skeptically, with a note of hope. It wasn't often people asked to see her power in action. Now the stranger nodded again, clapping his hands like an eager child. Qara shrugged, and, after a last confused look at the man, called fire to her wood-filled hand. The result was a tiny campfire, burning brightly in her palm. When she looked back at her stalker, she found him leaning forward and gazing at the flames, as if called to them by the same voice she heard whispering to her when she called upon her powers. They stood that like that, him leaning over the flames in her hand, her watching him, until the last flickers died and her palm was covered in ash. Then Qara pulled back her hand and coughed awkwardly. The whole experience had been decidedly strange and uncomfortable.  
"Well, if that's all you wanted..." she trailed off uncertainly. Her strange companion shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, and then looked at her silently.  
"... All right then. Bye, I guess." With that, Qara turned and walked to the end of the alley, intent on continuing on her way. But the sound of footsteps behind her made her stop, and she turned to find the shorter man still following her. She took another step. So did he. Then, with an exasperated sigh, she turned and just kept walking.  
Her new friend followed her the rest of the day. He stayed mostly unnoticeable, but occasionally brought her new things to burn- a bit of paper, a scrap of fabric, a feather. Each time, she took more and more pride in the obvious appreciation he displayed for her powers, and burned the latest kindling more dramatically. She made the fabric dance on her hand, and sent the feather flying around as it burned. At both, her- friend? was that the word?- clapped his hands and laughed, and she felt a warmth in her that had little to do with the flames she summoned.  
As darkness fell she came to the door of her apartments with the man still beside her. She went inside, leaving her silent companion behind. But then she stopped, and glanced at him, standing at her door like a puppy that had been locked outside. Finally she went back, and flashed a flicker of flame to get his attention.  
"You might as well come inside. We Pyros have to stick together."


	4. Scout's Apprenticeship

"But Ma, c'mon. Really? A wizard?" Scout whined as his mother, a head shorter than him, dragged him by the ear through the streets of Neverwinter.

"Quit complaining. You're lucky I found anyone willing to teach you anything, what with all the hell your brothers raise. It was bad enough that the first two joined those damn thieves. Then the others _had_ to join the Guard, and then they just _have_ to try and burn down half the town every time I just wanna have a nice family dinner..."

Scout tuned his ma out as she went on and on about "setting him up with a good spot in the world" or somethin' like that. All he knew was there was no way in hell he was gonna play apprentice for some random moon elf with a shop in the docks. Who even had shops in the docks, huh? Losers, that's who. So lucky him, he was gonna be apprentice to a loser wizard.

Suddenly he realized his ma had stopped dragging him. And stopped talking. Which meant he was supposed to say something.

"Ummm..." he glanced at his ma to find her glaring at him and tapping one foot. They had stopped in front of a sturdy building with strange sigils and wards carved on the blue door. The sign above read "Sand's Magical Emporium". A smaller sign tacked to the door, this one handwritten in a messy scrawl, read "Go away, Duncan".

The silence between Scout and his ma stretched on awkwardly as the young half-elf desperately tried to remember what she had said to him. At last, she rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. "Gods save me from my own children. You didn't listen to a word I said, did you Scooter?" Scout shook his head. She rolled her eyes again. "I said, you'd best get in there and introduce yourself to Mister Sand. You don't want to keep him waiting on your first day." Then her expression softened, and she smiled at her youngest son. "And I said I love you, Scooters. I know you'll do me proud." She patted him on the cheek and left.

As he watched his ma walk away, Scout felt frustration building. _"I know you'll do me proud..."_ He couldn't fuck this up. With an angry grunt he went to the blue door, shoved it open, and stomped into the wizard's shop.

The interior was well-lit, with sunlight streaming in from the windows. The place was cluttered, with ingredients and scrolls and things Scout couldn't name scattered on every flat surface. The one thing that was missing was the wizard Scout was supposed to meet. Sand, or some stupid name like that. In fact, the only living thing in the room besides Scout himself was a rather small orange cat sitting on an alchemy table. It was staring at Scout, unblinking and somewhat disturbing. For a minute, Scout stared back intently. Then he got bored and made a face at the feline. He wandered over to a bench beside the cat's table, a bench strewn with quills, bottles, scrolls, and animal parts. The cat's eyes followed his every move.

One bottle on the bench caught Scout's eye. It was small compared to the others, but bright orange and shining. It almost looked like someone had caught a tongue of flame and trapped it within the glass. Intrigued, he stretched out a finger to touch it. Before he could poke it, the cat hissed at him. He jumped and whirled around to find the cat standing on the floor directly behind him, back arched and fur standing on end. Scout made another face at it, and hissed right back. The cat just turned and stalked away to bound up some stairs on the other side of the room. "Stupid cat," Scout muttered. He faced the bench again, and once more reached for the orange bottle.

"Don't touch that, stupid boy!" A slightly nasal voice made Scout jump for the second time, and narrowly avoided knocking over the bottle. He spun around again, to find a short elf with black hair and brown robes standing at the bottom of the stairs and glaring at him. Satisfied that Scout wasn't going to try for the bottle again, the elf came forward and pushed him out of the way. He gathered the bottle, as well as a few other items, and stashed them in his robes. He kept his back to Scout and fussed with the things still on the bench. "You're one of Duncan's urchins, aren't you?" Before Scout could respond, the stranger continued. "Kindly tell your idiotic lord and master that I have greater concerns than his precious ale remedies, and that he is a drunken sot who should stop sending children into my shop." At that, Scout found his voice.

"Hey! I ain't some kid! And I dunno who the hells this Duncan guy is." The elf at the bench stilled, and he turned to glance at Scout over one shoulder. Then, after a moment, he turned to face Scout fully. He examined the younger man from head to toe, before peering at his face more closely.

"What day is it?"

"Are you kidding me?" When the elf didn't respond, Scout raised an eyebrow. He really hoped this was a mistake, and that this weirdo wasn't the guy he was apprenticed to. "Tyrsday."

The elf leaned back, crossed his arms, and sighed deeply. "Then you're my new apprentice. Lovely." He didn't sound excited. "I'm Sand. I hope you're not an idiot." Scout bristled at that and opened his mouth to respond, but the wizard cut him off with a wave of the hand. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you stand ready to deliver a long list of your undoubtedly numerous intellectual achievements. But that can wait, because I am, quite frankly, certain that they are less impressive than you believe them to be." Sand watched Scout's brow furrow as he tried to interpret the wizard's quickly-spoken words. The moon elf shook his head. He could already tell that working with this young man was going to be less than exhilarating. Scout's expression cleared as he finally figured out Sand's words, and he opened his mouth again. Sand cut him off again. "Yes, yes. Whatever. I don't really care." He snatched one of the larger bottles of the bench behind him. "Go deliver this to Duncan so I don't have to interact with him." He thrust the bottle into Scout's hands, and left for his upstairs laboratory.

Scout stood there, dumbfounded, bottle in hand. As the wizard's footsteps receded up the stairs, he muttered angrily. "Take the bottle to some random-ass dude. Yeah, that sounds like fun. Great fuckin' apprenticeship Ma got me." Still grumbling, he stomped towards the door.

Upstairs, Sand heard the door slam shut behind the boy, and smiled. He'd forgotten how fun it was to have someone around to harass. Maybe having an apprentice wouldn't be so bad after all. He just hoped the boy would eventually learn to fight back. If the boy learned to fight back, he could maybe have someone to match wits against for the first time since the King of Shadows debacle.

And if that didn't happen, well... At least Sand wouldn't have to be the one to deal with Duncan anymore.

 

_

 

“Hey, Scout!”

“‘Ey, it’s Scout, guys!”

“How’s it goin’, friend?”

Scout laughed as he navigated through the crowded tavern to join his friends at the bar. “Jeez guys, calm down. Ain’t like I disappeared from Toril or nothin’. You guys’re actin’ like ya haven’t seen me in forever.”

One of the other young men, laughed. “Dude, that’s 'cause we  _haven’t_  seen you in forever. You been locked up with that wizard, man. It’s been months.”

Scout frowned. “Nah, that can’t be right. Hells, I was there when Benny got arrested for loosing that duck in the Guard House.”

“Yeah, dumbass, and that was months ago. Like I said, that dry old wizard’s been takin’ up all your time.”

 

Scout shook his head at that, and chuckled nervously. “Don’t talk about Sand that way- he’s not that bad. It’s not like he’s taking  _all_  my time. I mean- I’m here, ain’t I? And I’m buying!” With that he plopped a leather bag of coins on the bar while his friends cheered. All thoughts of Scout’s long absence banished from their minds by the promise of free drinks, they quickly turned their attention to the barkeeper and began calling out their drink orders. But Scout kept to the back of the small crowd, chewing on his lip. Had it really been months since he’d seen his friends? Shaking his head, he pushed away the nagging question and shoved his way into the middle of the group. He was with them now, he was buying booze, and he was gonna get drunk of his ass.

And if he was  _really, really_ lucky, Sand wouldn’t even find out.

~

 _Sniff sniff_.

“Hmm.”

 _Sniff._ “Ale, unwashed young men.”

_Ssnnniifff._

“Correction,  _stale_  ale. The Sunken Flagon, boy, really?”

Scout groaned at the nasal and annoyed sound of Sand’s voice and rolled over in his bed, turning his back on the wizard standing in his doorway. Sand pursed his lips. “I would highly recommend that you be out of that bed in five minutes.” Scout’s only response was a grunt and a half-hearted wave of the middle finger. Sand simply rolled his eyes and left.

Muttering to himself about the irresponsibility of youth, Sand made his way downstairs and into the main  room of his shop. Once there, he grabbed an empty potion bottle and a handful of ingredients before busying himself at the alchemy table behind his counter. A few minutes had gone by when he suddenly stopped and cocked his head, listening intently.

_pssssssssst- poof!_

“HOLY FUCK I’M ON FIRE I’M ON FIRE! I’M BURNING! I’M BURNING!” The desperate screams were followed by the sound of a window breaking- Sand winced at that- and then a loud splash from the water trough outside, followed  by more swearing and shouting.

Sand went back to working on his potion.

Behind him the shop’s door creaked open, and squelching footsteps approached. Sand ignored the sound as he put the finishing touches on the ale purgative. Then, pointedly avoiding looking at the person who had entered, he added the fresh ale purgative to a box of similar bottles. Only when he had placed the box on the counter did he finally look up to see Scout glaring at him. Water was dripping from the young man’s hair and charred clothes, and half of one of his eyebrows appeared to have been burnt away. “Ah. Nice of you to finally get out of bed, apprentice.” There was no humor in the elf’s tone.

Scout sputtered and swore angrily. “What the hell was that crap?”

Sand arched an eyebrow. “ _That_  was a delayed-release inferno spell. And I hope it teaches you to not waste your time drinking with fools, thieves, and idiots. After you deliver Duncan’s ale purgative and finish cleaning the back room, I suggest you study it.”

“What? Why the in the hells-”

“ _Because_  that spell will be waking you up each morning until you learn to counter it. Now, that miserable excuse for a bartender is waiting on his purgative. Let’s not make him suffer the pain of his own shortcomings any longer, hmm?” Sand shoved the box at a dumbstruck Scout, who grabbed it reflexively. Then, congratulating himself on his ever-acute sense of dramatic timing, Sand left the room.

~

A few short minutes later, face still stinging from the burns, Scout slammed the delivery of ale purgative down on the bar of the Sunken Flagon. Polishing a glass behind the bar, Duncan noticed his dark expression and chuckled. “You feeling that ale this morning, lad?” He put down the glass and his rag and started removing bottles of ale purgative from the crate. At Scout’s uncharacteristic silence, however, he stopped and appraised the younger half-elf. He took in the singed clothes, half-missing eyebrow, and still-damp hair, and laughed again. “Ah,” he finally concluded with a knowing grin. “Sand find out and get mad at you?” Without waiting for an answer he went back to sorting the purgatives and continued. “I warned you last night that he wouldn’t be none too happy about you drinking with those hooligans and thieves. I-”

“Hey, shut up man. Those’re my friends. They’re not thieves or nuthin’.” Scout interrupted with a glare at Duncan.

The venom in Scout’s voice made Duncan pause again and take another long look at the apprentice. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed defensively. But it was his expression that caught Duncan’s eye. Part anger, part hangover, and wholly defiant, it was a look Duncan knew all too well. After all, he’d seen that same stubborn look on his niece’s face more than once before the war with the King of Shadows.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed aside the crate and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Look, Scout. I know you think they’re your friends, and I’m sure they’ve been mighty good to you in the past. But thieves is what they are- don’t fool yourself about that.” Scout opened his mouth to interrupt again, but Duncan silenced him with a stern look and wave of the hand. “Every couple of weeks  one or two of 'em disappear. And I hear things, lad. They’re not disappearing to seek their fortunes. They’re getting themselves arrested or killed over crime or gambling or drunken brawls. They’re thieves and criminals.” He paused here to give Scout a chance to protest, but the young half-elf had dropped his gaze to the polished wood of the bar and remained silent. “You’re better than that. You’ve got an apprenticeship to a real wizard- don’t tell Sand I said that.” Duncan smiled at Scout, but the expression slipped away as he was ignored once more. “You’re going places. But if you’re not careful, those folks you’re calling friends won’t hesitate to drag you down with them.” Duncan frowned as Scout’s silence continued.

Finally, with another sigh, he straightened and went back to the box of purgatives. “Maybe you’d best run along, lad. Go see your mum, or see if that charlatan has aught else for you to be doin’. I’ll return this crate myself when it’s empty. It’s been too long since Sand’s stopped by himself. It’ should be entertaining to drop by and annoy him.” He glanced at Scout, hoping for a laugh or other reaction. But Scout hadn’t moved. “Well… get goin’, lad.” He didn’t look up again until he heard the door to the tavern slam shut. When he did, his lips were pursed and his eyes were narrowed. “I’m going to have to talk to Sand about that one,” he muttered to himself. “If he’s not careful, he’s gonna lose a damn good apprentice.” He placed the last ale purgative on a shelf, grabbed the empty crate, and strode determinedly out of the Flagon.


	5. Poor Sir Bidwell

"Lord Hale! Lord Hale" Heads turned as the normally-calm Sir Bidwell dashed down the halls of Castle Never in search of the ruler of Neverwinter.

According to the schedule Bidwell kept, Hale was _supposed_ to be meeting with the ambassadors from Waterdeep. In Bidwell's mind, that meant a stately lunch and discussion of trade and alliance in one of the castle's nicer wings. Which was almost certainly _not_ what the blasted lord was doing.

 _Damn the man!_ Even _when_ Hale kept to schedule- which wasn't often- he refused to do it right! Just last week he'd gotten completely drunk with that dwarven king, and the week before that he'd punched the Luskan ambassador for being a foppish fool. And that didn't even begin to come close to the time a little girl had challenged him to a fight in the streets, and he'd tried to get Bidwell to fight her for him...

Hearing something, Bidwell skidded to a halt. He listened for a moment and heard it again- a booming laugh and bellowing voice that could only belong to Lord Hale. With that, Bidwell was off again, this time following the sounds of his liege's peculiar form of diplomacy.

When he finally reached the room where Hale had apparently chosen to meet the ambassadors- gods help them all, it was the kennels- Bidwell stopped to compose himself before pushing open the door and slipping inside.

He was greeted by the smell of wet dog fur and less pleasant things, as well as the sight of the Waterdhavian ambassadors gaping at Lord Hale. The Lord of Neverwinter, one of the most powerful men in the North, was shirtless and on the ground, wrestling with a wolfhound while telling a story about wrestling a bear.

That this scene was nothing surprising to Bidwell said a lot about the man- _and_ the lord he served.

"BIDWELL!" Hale boomed, breaking off his description of punching through the bear's ribcage. Turning to the slightly-dazed lords from Waterdeep, he announced "THIS IS BIDWELL, CAPTAIN OF THE NINE. HE'S A BIT POLITICAL, BUT WE'RE WORKING ON IT, RGIHT BIDWELL?"

Bidwell managed to avoid a grimace, and said "Yes my lord." He'd learned that it was easier to accpet the description of "a bit political" than to explain to Hale that wearing a shirt was manners, not politics. "There is a minor situation requiring your immediate attention, my lord."

"THERE IS, IS THERE? WELL, OUT WITH IT THEN." Hale rose, brushing off his knees.

"Ah, perhaps it would be best to not trouble the good ambassadors with our problems, my lord." As one, the ambassadors in question turned to look hopefully at Bidwell, desperate for escape.

"NONSENSE! WE WERE JUST SHARING STORIES! THEY CAN STAY." The Waterdhavians' shoulders drooped.

 _Right_. Not about to tell of madmen in the castle in front of guests, Bidwell went to his lord's side to whisper in his ear.

"WHAT'S THAT? THERE'S A MADMAN IN THE CASTLE?"

Bidwell whispered some more.

"HE WANTS TO JOIN THE NINE?"

Bidwell nodded, and whispered again.

"AND HE'S REFUSING TO LEAVE UNTIL I MEET HIM."

Bidwell nodded again, and whispered some more.

"AND MY LOUDLY REPEATING EVERYTHING YOU SAY IS DEFEATING THE PURPOSE OF YOU WHISPERING IN MY EAR TO PREVENT THE AMBASSADORS FROM KNOWING THERE'S A MAD, POSSIBLY VIOLENT STRANGER IN THE CASTLE?"

Bidwell gave up. "Yes, my lord." The ambassadors had now moved to a corner of the room, squeezing together as closely as they could and glancing about the room nervously.

"RIGHT THEN. SEND THIS MAD BLOKE TO MY STUDY- I'LL DEAL WITH HIM. NIGHT 'GENTS." Hale nodded at the ambassadors and left.

The Waterdhavians stared at the door, and then at Bidwell. Bidwell just stared after Hale, expressionless. Then, with a start, he turned to the ambassadors. They flinched at the sudden movement.

"There's a _madman_ , I tell him! I tell him there's a bloody _lunatic_ wanting to see him, and what does he do? Does he go somewhere _safe_? Does he let _me_ take care of the problem? Noooooooo! He goes to see the madman who wants to join the Nine!" Halfway through his rant, he turned and left the room, but the poor guests could hear him as he went down the hall.

After a while, one of them went and shut the door. It seemed best to just stay in the kennels for now.

 ~

Ten minutes later, after some calming breathing exercises and an herbal tea for his migraine, Bidwell stood outside the door of Lord Hale's study. He could hear a conversation going on in the room, muffled by the thick oaken door. There were no shouts, however, and no sounds of fighting. Hale must have dealt with the idiot who thought he could join the Nine, and moved on to other business. With that comforting conclusion drawn, he knocked on the door.   
Hearing an acknowledgement, he opened the door.

And found Hale and the madman sharing drinks and carrying on like old friends.

"BIDWELL! I WAS WONDERING WHEN YOU WERE GOING TO SHOW UP AGAIN! COME IN, I WANT YOU TO MEET SOLLY!" The madman from earlier stood next to Hale, waving at Bidwell. He was dressed in mismatched, seemingly-homemade armor, and wore a metal helm two sizes too big for him. It fell forward to obscure the man's eyes, but his general expression could still be seen. He was grinning, the same hopeful grin from earlier when he'd charged at Bidwell demanding a chance to fight for a place in the Nine. "SOLLY WANTS TO JOIN THE NINE!" Solly nodded eagerly.

Sir Bidwell felt his eye begin to twitch. "I'm aware, my lord. He made that quite clear earlier. When he threw a shovel at me and challenged me to a duel."

Hale's only response was hysterical laughter. "YES, HE TOLD ME ABOUT THAT! WHAT I WOULDN'T HAVE GIVEN TO SEE YOUR FACE!"

The man, Solly, laughed too. "He looked like a wizard that just had his castle turned into a druid's circle!" This contribution only made Hale laugh harder.

"BIDWELL, I WANT THIS MAN IN THE NINE! HE CAN FIGHT, HE CAN DRINK, AND HE'S GOT A SENSE OF HUMOR. WHO KNOWS, MAYBE SOME OF IT WILL RUB OFF ON YOU!"

Bidwell wondered if both eyes were supposed to twitch. Casting desperately around for a diplomatic way to say _"not until the hells freeze over"_. A few panicked moments passed, before he seized on the one thing that could save him. "I'm sure that would be wonderful, my lord, but there is no more room in the ranks of the Nine."

Hale's face fell, and so did Solly's. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NO MORE ROOM?"

"Well, my lord, it's called the Nine for a reason."

Bidwell was no mindreader, but a rock could have interpreted the meaning behind Hale's expressions- thoughtful as he considered the situation, blank for a moment as he got distracted, and then animated once more as he decided to make the problem Bidwell's. This pattern was one Bidwell had grown quite familiar with.

"WELL, THEN, HE CAN SERVE NEVERWINTER A DIFFERENT WAY! GIVE HIM A QUEST OR SOMETHING."

"Yessir! Send me to do battle and I'll bring you a thousand heads!" Solly, who had seemed so crestfallen at the thought of not being able to join the Nine, perked up immediately at the thought of fighting.

Even if both eyes _were_ supposed to twitch, Bidwell was quite sure the twitching was not supposed to be quite this violent. "I'll think of something, my lord." With that, he left. No bow, no niceties, not even a nod. Another wasted moment, and his head would explode.

It was days like this that Sir Bidwell, Captain of the Nine, Protector of the Lord of Neverwinter, really wondered if any jury would convict him.

 ~

A tenday later, Solly pushed his way out of the forest and into the clearing Sir Bidwell had told him about. The twitchy knight had said there was a wizard who lived here, in desperate need of a warrior to aid him in his wizardly pursuits. At first, Solly had been reluctant to take on such a scholarly-sounding quest, but the promise of a chance to fight his way through an orc-infested forest silenced his doubts.

Looking back on it though, he realized he probably should have questioned Bidwell more on how infested the forest really was. Solly had only come across one band of orcs, and only walked away with three new heads. The whole rest of the week, he hadn't seen any! It was disappointing.

Making his way to the door of the somewhat ordinary-looking hut, Solly knocked and hoped the wizard was home. After a few moments, the door opened to reveal a grumpy man in a deer-skull hat and dirty green-black robes, who looked Solly up and down as if appraising him. With a huff, the wizard nodded.

"So," he said. "You're the indentured servant Bidwell sent me, then?"


	6. Sniper and Spy's Less-Than-Excellent Adventure

Grumbling audibly, Sniper fanned himself with a hand and sank deeper into the shadows of the alleyway, seeking relief from the merciless Calimport sun. The man was used to the shady, cool forests of the North, where there were rains and snows and bloody _seasons_ \- not just unending, brutal summer and heat and sun and disgusting, obnoxious _flies_. Irritable, he smacked a large horsefly out of the air as it buzzed lazily by. His temper only grew worse as he glanced up at the sky and realized it was already past mid-afternoon. "Damn stupid drow _._ " He kicked viciously at a pebble and missed. Frowning, he picked it up and threw it as hard as he could at the building on the other side of the tiny alley. It bounced off and landed with a small puff of dust before rolling to the same spot Sniper had grabbed it from. For a moment, he just stared at it. Then, with a huff, he slumped against the wall and crossed his arms.

The damn drow was late.

Who'd have guessed he'd end up waiting on a bloody dark elf in some back alley in Calimport? Hells, who'd have guessed he'd be travelling with a drow at all?

_The dark elf was a sight to behold. Well, most elves are, but Sniper had always heard that drow were exceedingly exotic. This one seemed to prove that true. He didn't appear to be very tall- perhaps an inch or two shorter than Sniper, if he stretched. His appearance, however, made up for what he lacked in height. Red eyes flashed brilliantly beneath a tied-back and well-kept mane of white hair, which in turn hung in stark contrast to his ebony skin and dark clothing. His features were sharp and angular enough that Sniper's first impression was that the elf and his daggers, jagged hunks of dark metal that seemed to absorb the light, were a well-matched pair. His second thought was that the elf was as dangerous as anything Sniper'd ever run up against in the wild. The drow was graceful as he walked through the bar, but it was a deadly grace, the kind of flowing movement that traveled through dark halls with daggers drawn and painted blood across the walls. All in all, the drow was not someone Sniper wanted anything to do with._

_So, of course, the elf made a beeline towards Sniper and addressed him by name._

That night in Luskan, Spy had been looking for someone to help him get acquainted with the city and surrounding wilds. Remembering, that first time they met, Sniper snorted derisively. _"You can call me... Spy."_ That was the only response Sniper had gotten when he'd asked the drow's name, and was the only name he'd heard since then. Anyway, when Spy had sought information, he'd been pointed Sniper's way by someone who knew the ranger. Then one thing led to another, and he'd accidentally helped the drow assassinate a wizard and three powerful merchants before the two of them ended up riding stolen horses down through the woods like demons were chasing them. And given that their escape had followed a failed attempt to assassinate a second wizard, Sniper still wasn't entirely sure they _hadn't_ been chased by demons that night. They'd spent the next few tendays camping in the woods, making their way to the mountains. Then Spy got whiny and obnoxious, so Sniper threatened him with a knife and told him that if he was going to be an annoying little imp, _he_ could just damn well figure out where they were going next and then one thing led to another _again_ and here Sniper was waiting for the _damn_ drow in some _shit_ -stained alleyway in the middle of bloody _Calimport_ in the middle of the bloody _desert_!

Suddenly livid again, Sniper swung around and punched the wall as hard as he could. Five bloody hours ago, Spy had led him to this arse-end of the city and told him they'd meet there at noon. Now it was at least three hours past, and Spy was nowhere to be seen. "Bloody elf probably got 'imself killed" Sniper muttered. "Bastard would deserve it." But the dark elf was also the only way Sniper was going to get home through the desert. He needed Spy to be not dead, and to get his drow arse moving so they could go back north. So, he reluctantly pushed off the wall and started for the street.

Just before he stepped out of the shade and into the scorching sun, he was stopped by a voice in the shadows. "I was wondering how long you'd wait before going off on your own." Sniper spun around to see Spy lounging comfortably on top of an old crate in the shadows of an abandoned merchant's tent.  "Apparently," the drow continued, rolling off the crate and to his feet, "you would rather wait for me three hours past the time of our meeting than wander Calimport alone looking for me. Either you know your skills are lacking, ranger, or you trust me more than is good for you." He paused with a sly smile, one eyebrow arched elegantly, and waited to see if Sniper would respond to the taunt. When the man remained silent,  Spy shrugged and began walking down the street. Lacking an alternative, Sniper followed.

For a time they simply wandered the streets in silence. Sniper eventually began to suspect that the assassin was leading them in circles just to annoy him. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became, until he could almost _feel_ the smug bastard waiting for Sniper to ask about their destination. Gritting his teeth, Sniper resisted the temptation to ask the question Spy was just dying for him to ask.

"So... where're we going?" Damn it.

Spy just smirked at the ranger over one shoulder. "Nowhere. Somewhere. Everywhere." He kept walking as Sniper wrestled the urge to kill the drow. For a little while longer silence prevailed once more.

Then: "So. You ever find that bloke you were looking for?" Spy stopped abruptly and glanced back at Sniper, evidently surprised at the question. Then his shoulders slumped slightly and he started walking again.

"Non. I could not find him. A disappointment, really. I had looked forward to meeting him."

"Oh." Silence fell again. "So... what was the bloke's name again? Jarazel?"

"Jarlaxle."

"Jar-Jar what now?"

"Jar-" Spy broke off, stopping so suddenly that Sniper almost collided with the elf's back. "Jarlaxle," he breathed, staring straight ahead with wide eyes. Sniper shot a glare at the stationary drow. Scowling, he looked over the his shorter companion's shoulder to try and spot what has the assassin so entranced.

At the end of the winding street was another dark elf. Bloody hells, the buggers were everywhere these days! The new drow was talking with a bored-looking, dark-haired human, and gesturing grandly at the noisy streets and shops. Almost as grand as his gestures was the drow's apparel. He wore a brilliantly-colored cloak, high boots and a shirt cut high to show off his abdomen. At his ears and on his wrists he wore a multitude of gems and metals, jewelry that glinted in the bright sun. One eye was covered with an eyepatch. But most extravagant of all was his hat, wide-brimmed and adorned with an enormous purple feather. Amazed by the drow's strange appearance, Sniper turned to Spy. "D'you see that, mate? Who do you think that bastard is?"

Spy just kept staring at the strange dark elf. "Jarlaxle," he breathed again. There was a light in his eyes Sniper had never seen before. It was manic, obsessive, worshipful, and more than a little terrifying.

"... _e's_ the one you were looking for?" Sniper backed away from Spy a step or two, disturbed by the assassin's behavior.

" _Yes._ " Spy started walking forward, gliding as if he were moving through a dream. "Isn't he wonderful?" After a few steps, the elf shook his head and looked back to Sniper. "Go back to the alley and wait for me there," he commanded.

Sniper's jaw dropped. "I waited for you in that bloody alley all damn day! You should've tracked the bloke down then if you wanted to meet him without me around!"

Spy just stared at coolly at Sniper. "Go back to the alley. Or stay here, and I will not come back to find you later. Those are your options." With that, Spy turned and left, slipping into the crowd.

Sniper swore loudly enough to scare several nearby strangers. _Damn drow, wandering off to meet some bloke 'e has some kind of bloody crush on._ Sniper turned around and started stomping away, only to stop and swear again when he realized that he had no idea how to get back to the bloody alleyway anyway. He scowled, and a passing mother wrapped her child in her arms and covered it's eyes.

He should have abandoned Spy to the demons and never looked back.


End file.
